Smoking In The Rain
by BurningNightingale
Summary: On the path to war, on the eve of war, and at the end of it; Arthur interacts with those who are important in his life.


**A/N: Written for the Writersverse landcomm on LJ. This is probably one of the most serious fics I've written, and a little bit of my headcanon thrown in there for good measure. Enjoy :D**

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Arthur knew what was coming before it happened; when you get to being nine hundred and something years old, you have a knack for guessing these things. Of course, His Majesty and the government refused to believe it until it really did become inevitable, but he didn't really blame them. Much. It's natural to want to conserve the lives of those in your service, after all.

But for nations, these things are obvious; and sometimes that rankles deep within him, deep down in the part which he believes will never accept the inevitability of the human lifespan. He knows it's a good thing, this ache he feels whenever he contemplates sending them into danger, into death. He knows if he loses touch with the pain, if he stops caring, nothing will be sacred.

(Arthur knows this because he danced too close to the edge once, back when he truly believed the world could belong to him and only to him)

Though Arthur has dabbled in more of the magical arts than you could shake a stick at, he's never seen the future. This annoys Francis when he tells him, on a sunny afternoon in Paris when war is rumbling low and menacing on the air once again.

"Never? You have not once managed, with all your supposed skill, to look into the future?" Francis snorts and violently throws himself back into pacing. "What good are all your magic tricks, then?!"

Arthur knows why Francis wants him to see the future. He wonders if he would look, if he could. Instead he answers flatly, "I could turn you into your namesake."

(There's a strange shift in the atmosphere whenever Francis is tense. It doesn't happen often because he hides it so well, usually. For some reason, it's in these moments that Arthur is at his calmest.

Opposites, obviously)

Often when he's staying at the Palace he'll open the glass door that leads into the garden and go out to lean unobtrusively against one of the trees. Usually he does this when it's raining. Usually he will smoke, too.

The same happens here at Balmoral, where Elizabeth finds him one afternoon under a torrential downpour. Usually she would scold him for being out in the rain, for the smoking cigarette between his fingers. Today she only stares at him with wide eyes, and they stare at each other through the rain until she says, "They've declared war. On the radio."

He takes a long drag on the cigarette. The smoke curls upward between them, and he extends an arm.

She sighs as she comes to lean against the bark next to him. He wraps one arm around her slim, skinny shoulders, and she leans her head against him. "Why do you always smoke in the rain?" she asks him softly.

He thinks about answering honestly for a moment; but the girl is young. She doesn't need to hear what he has to say, what he's thinking about right now. Not yet, anyway. So he just shrugs and says, "And why do you so often come out to find me?"

"You'll catch cold," she whispers, sniffing heavily through her nose. He doesn't comment as she turns her face into his chest, her shoulders shaking softly; he just wraps his arm tighter around her skinny shoulders.

(He remembers her namesake vividly; all wild red hair and fey laughter, her eyes bright and shining as he crossed swords with her secretly, practising in hidden courtyards.

He loved her almost as much as Francis loved Jeanne, though he's never told anyone and he never will)

When he returns to his room a familiar figure is sprawled over his bed, his clothes and red hair wet and in casual disarray. Arthur raises an eyebrow at him.

"We're declaring war while you're smoking in the garden?" Alastair says, ever his blunt self.

Arthur ignores this line of conversation. "When did you get here?" he asks as he hangs his coat over the back of the desk chair. "I hope you didn't walk."

The Scottish man snorts and rests his head back on the bed. "You know I hate walking."

"Have you seen Bertie and the girls?"

"I have not yet seen fit to announce my presence," Alastair says with mock pomp, and Arthur throws a cushion at him.

"You should change," Arthur advises, "Dinner will be very soon."

Alastair stands up slowly, unfolding himself and all his long limbs from the bed. Before he leaves he catches Arthur's wrist and says with unusual seriousness, "We'll be running in Francis' neck of the woods for a while, right?"

The corner of Arthur's lips twitch slightly. "I wouldn't expect you to be anywhere else."

(Some of the other nations still think Arthur and his brothers don't get on, but they would be wrong. He's never been particularly close to sister Ireland, but as brothers go his aren't a bad bunch. He can admit that now. And he's glad, because they often watch each other's backs, and unlike with any other nation he knows he can trust them unreservedly. They're in it together.

They are the United Kingdom, after all)

He remembers crying on V-E Day, for the first time in a very long time.

The crowds are washing down Whitehall, linking arms and kissing and hugging and there are smiles everywhere. No one knows that the two girls clutching tightly to his hands are their Royal Highnesses Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret.

_Not girls anymore, _he muses to himself as they laugh in time with one another and Margaret skips up and down. _Well, maybe Margaret still is. _They had begged their father to be allowed out into the streets; he had been reluctant until Elizabeth snagged Arthur's hand from the crowd and chirped, "Don't worry, Daddy, Arthur will protect us!"

He wishes fervently in those moments that he could protect them forever, just like he has with every other child who has held his hand, smiled up at him, called him pet names and felt safe just by the merit of his presence. The two princesses pull him along on a tidal wave of happiness and joy and pure aching _relief_, and he finds himself infinitely glad that he still loves to watch children grow.

(And when he sees him later, the child whom he loved more than any other who grew into the man who broke his heart completely, he is so glad that nothing, not even that, can stop him loving children)

(And when that infinitely annoying, maddening and secretly wonderful man smiles joyfully at him, blue eyes flashing, and says 'Hey Artie' in his maddening Texan drawl, Arthur doesn't even have the heart to snap at him. Because even though he knows there's still everything to do, Ludwig to supervise and Kiku to deal with and Ivan to watch carefully, right now Alfred is here and the sun is shining and the war is finally, _finally _over, and he feels more connected to the American than he has in decades.

And in that moment, it's enough)


End file.
